The Tracks of My Tears
by chicadoodle
Summary: When a rival werewolf pack killed Stiles Stilinski, Derek Hale made sure they suffered, John Stilinski grieved, and life moved on as it is wont to do. Then Stiles Stilinski was found in a forest in Oregon, and his exhumed grave revealed an empty coffin. And suddenly, the questions surrounding Stiles' disappearance are the least of their worries.
1. Chapter 1

He remembered pain. White hot spikes of pain where their fingers had dug in, where their knives had cut away. Entire sections of flesh had been cut away from his arms, his legs. They had sliced into the flesh of his stomach, his chest, even his hands. A long thin scar ran across his right cheek when they had veered too close to his eyes, smirking and threatening. One had wanted to taste them, the other demanding that his eyes be left alone lest he not be able to see what they were doing.

"We can't damage him too much. You know that. But that doesn't mean we can't play . . . " He remembered those words, remembered the terror that had filled him. There had been times when he had wanted to die, just so that the pain would go away. But those words had stayed with him. They wouldn't let him die. They always stopped just before it became too deadly, just before it went too far.

. . .

_"They think you're dead, you know." The words were spoken softly, almost as an afterthought. A knife slipped over his stomach as she spoke, and the dark-haired beauty dipped down, her long brown hair brushing feather-light against his side as she licked at the blood that had bubbled up. As she lifted herself up she licked at her lips, the last traces of his blood disappearing before she spoke again._

_"It was so tedious! Planting the memories was the worst part - going from one person to the next." She trailed her fingers against his chest as she spoke, cocking her head to the side as she considered his body,a already littered with thin scars that, while healing, could be opened easily enough. She liked to create new scars, however, new conduits of pain. Something he knew all too well._

_"But it's over now." Another touch of her too-sharp knife to his flesh, and Stiles blinked against the tears that filled his eyes, whimpering behind the gag in his mouth. Squeezed his eyes shut as she bent over his body once again. "They had your funeral today, did you know? Your poor papa was so sad! But even he has accepted your death now. He was the hardest one - he held on to hope the longest. But now he has the memory of your poor, broken body to mourn over." She smiled as she lifted herself up so that her face hovered just inches above his. Her lips were still stained with his blood, and Stiles forced his eyes to close against that sight. She tutted at the movement, a soft laugh escaping her lips. "Oh, don't be so shy." Her lips pressed against his - a soft, chaste kiss that was repeated several times. "We're just getting started."_

. . .

How long had he been running? He couldn't remember. He remembered the fear as he had struggled against his bonds. He remembered the sharp tang of blood in the air as he re-opened one of the newer cuts across his chest, the pain that had flared up in his side. The bandage over one of the larger chunks of flesh they had cut away was soaked in blood, and he couldn't tell if he was dizzy from dehydration, sleep deprivation, or loss of blood. Not that it really mattered - he was probably suffering from all three.

He stumbled as he walked now, some of the adrenaline having left him. The pain flared with every step, but he forced himself to keep going, even as the edges of his vision darkened and the forest swam before his eyes.

Nothing looked familiar, but then again every tree looked the same as the last, the same as the next. He had never been one for forests when he was younger, and he liked them even less now. Too many terrible things had happened in forests - happened to him, to his friends, to strangers he had only seen after his death.

But the human body was only capable of so much - and he was most definitely human. At last he stumbled, his forward momentum interrupted as he crashed to the ground with a soft cry of pain. The forest was silent around him, but even as darkness claimed him he knew that didn't mean safety.

Too many terrible things had happened to Stiles Stilinski in the forest.

. . .

When Stiles regained consciousness at last, it was to the sound of a softly beeping machine. He was aware of movement around him, but he kept his eyes closed lest he open them to find himself back in the tiny room - the room with the knives, the room of pain and darkness and everything terrible and evil.

But then, what was that infernal beeping?

"I know you're awake, Stiles." The voice was like a shock of cold water thrown over his face, and Stiles physically jerked with the force of his shock, his eyes flying open as he desperately sought out the owner of said voice.

Derek Hale sat in a hard plastic chair at the side of his hospital bed, his hands pressed together between his knees as he stared at the injured form of the only human to ever join a werewolf pack, as far as the older man knew. There was a light dusting of stubble acros shis chin, and his eyes had dark shadows beneath them as if he had not slept in several days.

For all Stiles knew he hadn't - he hadn't seen the man in months. He hadn't seen anybody save for his kidnappers for months.

He mouthed the older man's name, but found himself unable to make a sound as he stared with wide eyes at the werewolf. Derek stared back with a stony expression, his eyes narrowed in suspicion, and Stiles felt his heart leap into his throat at that.

"I saw your body." Derek had never been one to beat around the bush - not even when he had been seeking Scott's help shortly after the teenage boy had been turned he hadn't been particularly good at patiently working to get a willingness to help from the teen. That just wasn't his way. The familiarity of Derek's approach almost made Stiles smile.

Almost.

He wanted to come back with some quick, witty response like he used to. Like he would have the last time he had seen the werewolf. But he couldn't. Couldn't even bring himself to open his mouth, The despair was eating at him - what sort of a response was he supposed to make? How could he make the other man understand?

"Your body, Stiles. Broken on some cold hospital slab. I hunted down the werewolves who killed you. I tore them to shreds." The werewolf in Derekwas rising to the surface, and Stiles would have taken a step back if he could - if his body didn't feel like it was made of lead, if he wasn't connected to so many hospital machines.

Derek drew a shaky breath, standing to his feet in a sudden movement that sent his chair skiddering backwards. Running his hand through his hair, he turned away from the bedridden Stiles, breathing deeply through his nose in an effort to calm himself.

As he did so, the hospital room door opened to admit John Stilinski. He looked worse than Derek, dark bags under his eyes. And he was too skinny - skinnier than Stiles had ever seen his father. Skinnier than Stiles had been before he was taken.

John took in the scene before him in one glance - Derek with his hands still caught in his hair and facing away from the hospital bed, obviously fighting for control. Stiles, staring helplessly at the two of them, his eyes wide. John's own breath caught in his throat, his hands shaking slightly as he stumbled toward the side of the bed that Derek had only just abandoned.

There were questions that needed to be answered. Things that needed to be said. Where have you been? Are you okay? Who did this to you? Why did they do this you? What were they - were they human? Was it werewolves? Where did all these scars come from? Did they have you the entire time? Why do I remember identifying your body? But none of those questions mattered right now. There would be time for all of that later. All that mattered now, was that he had his son back.

In the four days that had passed since Stiles had been found, they had exhumed his grave. His empty grave, filled with nothing but the cloth lining and a smell of wet earth. His empty grave, where John could clearly remember seeing his son's face, still and cold with death. He had those memories - false memories. Nobody could explain it to him - not Derek Hale, not Peter Hale, not Deaton. All that they knew, was that Stiles had been alive. Alive, and hurting. And nobody had come for him.

Had he known? Known that nobody was coming, that they believed he was dead? Had there been any hope in him that somebody would come fo rhim, that somebody would rescue him from whatever creature - be they human, werewolf or otherwise - had taken him? Or had he known that nobody was coming, that nobody would rescue him, that it was all on him? That there was no hope.

John placed his right hand against the surface of the hospital bed, the other hovering just over the skin of his son's face. There was a long, thin scar there, coming dangerously close to his right eye. John curled his hand as though he were cupping his son's face, though he didn't dare to acutally touch the teenager's skin. "Stiles."

Stiles still said nothing, his vision blurred by tears. He wasn't trapped. They hadn't found him. His family had found him instead. He didn't care why, he didn't care how. He was beyond caring what he looked like, how much Derek might hate him for the weakness of his tears.

Drawing a deep breath, Stiles close his eyes against the tears that filled them, clenching his teeth. His teeth hurt - his teeth always hurt. But he refused to think about why. Refused to remember why. When his father's fingers finally connected with the side of his face, however, Stiles didn't flinch away from them. Instead, he leaned his head into them, seeking the comfort of the first touch in months that he welcomed. The first touch in months that he knew wasn't going to hurt him.

. . .

Some time later, when Stiles had drifted into sleep and John had finally lifted his hand away from contact with his son's face, Derek and John stood outside the younger man's hospital room in silence. A police officer stood just outside the door, sitting in a hard plastic chair and reading a magazine. He was alert, though, and John was thankful for that. It wasn't a police officer that he knew - they weren't even in California, but rather in Portland, Oregon.

John had no jurisdiction here, and he knew it. But the local police station had been welcoming, understanding, and had worked with him from every angle. They had offered their help in every capacity they could, and even now they had officers scouring the area where Stiles had been found, attempting to find any sign of the younger man's kidnappers.

Nobody mentioned the fact that there had been a body. Nobody mentioned the funeral, the confusion over how his son could be alive. They simply accepted that somebody had hurt a teenaged boy - somebody had tortured the son of a police sheriff. And they didn't take kindly to somebody hurting their own.

"You don't have to stay." John finally spoke to the werewolf standing beside him, though he didn't look at the younger man. A grunt was all he got, and when JOhn finally glanced to his side he found the dark-haired young man scowling darkly in his direction. "You don't. He'll be alright. I'll make sure of that."

"You're only human." The words were innocent enough, but now that John knew of the supernatural he could also see them as a rather racist statement. "There's only so much you can do. I'm staying."

It crossed John's mind that he should probably be upset at that, but he couldn't find it in him to be upset. Not if it meant that his son would be that much safer.

So he said nothing, simply nodded. "I'm going to go and grab some coffee. I'll bring you back some."

Derek nodded his thanks, turning to go back into the hospital room and the sleeping form of Stiles. There was no way he was going to let the boy out of his sight for some time - and screw what Stiles might have to say about it. He wasn't losing the young man again. He wasn't losing another member of his pack, period.


	2. Chapter 2

_Author's Note: Comments are always welcome! I've had this idea running around in my head for a while, and with the start of Season 4 i decided to finally sit down and write it out. Please, leae a review and let me know what you think of the story! _

_ Stiles is alive. _

The text message came out of nowhere, and Scott McCall stared at in confusion and rising anger for several seconds before the next one stopped him in his tracks.

It was an image this time, showing the body of his best friend connected to a series of tubes and IVs as he laid on a hospital bed. The text has come from Derek, but John Stilinski sat in a chair next to Stiles' bed, his hand laid upon his son's as he stared unerringly at the teenager.

_ Where? How? _

_ Oregon. Don't know. _

Scott very nearly growled in frustration, but held himself back as he caught up to his girlfriend, Kira. Kira stared at the picture for several seconds, his hands curling around the phone tightly before she passed the phone without a word to Lyrdia, the only other member of their group who had known Stiles since he was a child. Malia stared at the phone over Lydia's shoulder, her brown hair properly brushed for once and falling down around her shoulders in gentle waves.

Malia had come a long way since she had first been transformed from a wolf back into a human after years of living in the wild. Idea like friendship had been hard for the young woman to understand - the idea of having people around her that she would never give up on, no matter how dire the circumstances. Stiles had taught her that, and his death had hit her hard.

But she had been a wild creature once, and she knew how to move on. She had lost her mother, her sister, but more than that she had been responsible for their deaths. If she could move on from that, she could move on from the loss of Stiles. And for the most part, she had. But in her heart, she had known that nobody would ever replace Stiles.

There was silence in the small group, even as the other students of Beacon Hills High School continued to move around them, flowing like a river around the small group of somber teenagers.

"How?" Malia finally spoke, her eyes moving from the picture to Stiles. Malia Tate had never been one to beat around the bush or allow emotions to get in the way of what she knew she had to do. She hadn't hesitated when it came to returning home to her father, no matter how scared she might have been. She hadn't hesitated when it had come to the nogitsune hidden away within Stiles, hadn't hesitated when it came to rescuing Derek Hale from Mexico. And she certainly wasn't going to hesitate now.

"I don't know. Derek said they're in Oregon, but he didn't say where."

"Find out." Malia demanded, raising one eyebrow at him. When he didn't move automatically, however, she pulled out her own mobile phone and hit Derek's number from her contacts.

When Derek didn't answer, however, she gave a growl of frustration. "Where in Oregon?" She demanded into his voicemail. "Call us back. With more detail this time." With that she hung up, turning away from Scott and the others as she started to make her way out of the school.

"Wait! Malia!" Kira hurried after her, grabbing onto the other girls arm near the entrance to the highschool. "Where are you going?"

Malia still had her cell phone out, keyed to a search engine. "Checking the internet. If he was found, there will be a police report. If there is a police report, there will be a new article - and the news article will tell us where he is." Malia explained, as if she were talking to a child. "Once we know where he is, we can go to him, without waiting for Hale to get back to us."

Kira blinked, releasing her arm. "Oh. Well, wait for us." Behind her, Scott nodded while Lydia merely followed behind him, silent.

. . .

Stiles Stilinski had never enjoyed waiting before. He had never been one for remaining still, for patiently waiting to see a problem resolved. He had always been one for action, even if that action _was_ research more often than not.

Now, however, as he laid on a hospital bed with a doctor checking his vital signs, he couldn't force himself to care. He would be okay, of that he had little doubt. It would be sort of redundant to die now, after everything he had survived these past couple of months. Now, he just wanted the quiet. Wanted to silence to engulf him, in a way it never had before, Even his dreams had been chaotic these past couple of months, filled with death and pain and suffering - a reflection of his waking moments.

The doctor was silent as he worked, motioning John out of the room with a crook of his finger at the end of it. And as much as Stiles wanted to know what they were talking about, it wasn't enough to break his self imposed silence.

. . .

"His cuts are healing nicely, and I haven't found any bruising aside from that around his ankles and wrists. I take it you are the police officer in charge of his case?"

John was still wearing his sheriff's get-up, so he could understand the man's confusion. "No, I'm his father."

The man's eyes widened. "I apologize. You're uniform . . . "

John waved a hand, shaking his head. It's fine. You were saying?"

"The bruising will heal over time, though I can prescribe an ointment to help speed up the process. The most immediate concern is the chunk of flesh taken out of his side." The doctor paused, drawing a deep breath. "There are no signs of infection, but I am going to prescribe a round of antibiotics anyway. It certainly won't harm him. He is seriously underweight, even by the standards sent over by his primary care physician."

"What about his voice? He hasn't spoken since he woke up."

"We haven't found anything _physical_ to explain your son's refusal to speak." The way the doctor stressed that word - _physical_ - set off alarm bells in John's head. "It's entirely possible Mr. Stilinski is fully capable of speaking, and simply hasn't chosen to do so yet."

Nodding his head in thanks, John pressed a hand to the man's head with a smile he didn't really feel as he stepped back into the hotel room.

The idea of his son not speaking for more than ten minutes was a foreign concept to John. The fact that Stiles had remained silent for nearly twenty four hours since first waking up had become a reality he was forced to accept, however.

Stiles' eyes were open when John stepped back into his room, and the teenager made no move to hide it or to pretend that he was asleep. He simply watched John with his eyes, his fingers twisting in the thin blanket that covered him.

John slowly lowered himself into the hard plastic chair beside his son's bed, his eyes flickering over the form of Derek Hale asleep on the only other chair in the room. The man had remained awake all night last night, watching over the two of them as they slept, and he deserved his rest. The sheriff knew all too well that the types of dangers that Derek was on the lookout for were something that the Portland PD would be hard pressed to defend against - if they could at all.

Leaning forward slightly, John took one of his son's hands in his, trying to ignore how Stiles flinched slightly at the touch. "The doctor said you're healing well." John kept his voice down, though he knew it was hopeless - a werewolf's senses were far too keen for it to do any good. Still, he lived in hope that Derek would get a few more moments of sleep, at the very least. "But they can't explain why you won't speak to me."

In the past twenty four hours Stiles had had plenty of opportunities to talk. There had been doctors and nurses coming in and out of his room, a police officer speaking to John outside his room. There had been John outright attempting to garner some sort of response from him. But all he had done was smile and make small motions with his hands or facial expressions in order to get his message across. But not once had he spoken.

Derek had made no such attempts to get Stiles to speak. He had simply ben there, quiet and brooding, watching the comings and goings of hospital personnel with a suspicious glare. In the quiet between visits, however, his gaze was only for Stiles.

Instead of settling himself back into his chair, John paced over to the wide double windows that adorned his son's hospital room. Stiles watched him go silently, his fingers tapping on the blanket that covered him nervously. Though the pain medication in his system was making him more than a little sleepy, he fought against the urge to close his eyes and succumb to sleep. He had slept enough since being rescued, from what he had overheard. And he didn't want to lose this opportunity to simply observe his father.

Even if his father was beginning to become annoyed with his lack of speech.

It wasn't something that Stiles could explain, his hesitation to speak. He was certainly capable; his captors had never touched his throat, had never done anything to permenantly damage any part of his body, actually. They had always stopped short, always careful that he could heal from whatever they did to him.

Stiles shied away from those thoughts, focusing his attention sharply back on his father lest the panic bubble up inside of him. From the other side of the room, however, Derek finally shifted from the position he had been in for the past several hours, coming to lean over Stiles smaller form, one hand braced beside his shoulder. "Stiles, look at me."

Stiles forced himself to look up into the face of the older werewolf, panic rising in his chest. Instead of saying anything, though, Derek simply laid his other hand on Stiles' chest, focusing his energy on the younger man.

Stiles breath caught in his throat as he realized what Derek was doing. He had heard of Scott doing it with Isaac; hell, he had seen the other teenager drawing somebody's pain out. But they could do more than just draw out pain, couldn't they? They could dig down to the root of the problem, discover just what was wrong with a person. While Scott wasn't as good at it as Derek, even he had begun to learn how to hone that particular skill.

Suddenly, Stiles wanted to know where Scott was. Wanted to know that he was okay. Scott, Malia, Lydia. They were all that was important to him, suddenly. Knowing that they were okay, that they hadn't been hurt or hunted down by irate hunters out for blood. There were so many things that could hurt them, so many outside supernatural forces that might have come for them while he had been gone, assumed dead.

But that would mean beaking his self imposed silence. That would mean talking. And as much as he didn't want to do that - as much as he wanted to remain silent - he wanted to know about Scott and the others even more.

One hand reaching around, Stiles grabbed hold of Derek's hand with one of his own, wincing as the IV in his hand pulled and stretched slightly against his skin. "Where is Scott?"

The sudden sound startled both older men, and Deek pulled back slightly in surprise. John whipped around to stare at his son for a second, before hurrying over to his bedside once again. "What did you do?" The question was directed at Derek, who simply shook his head. "Nothing. Nothing that would have forced himt o speak."

Now that he had broken his silence, however, Stiles wouldn't be ignored. "Scott. Where is he? Is he okay?" He glanced between the two men expectantly, annoyed beyond reason when they didn't respond right away. "Lydia, Malia, Kira. Are they all okay?Where are they?"

Derek took a step back, allowing John to move in closer to his son and lay a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "It's okay - they're fine. They're probably in class right now."

"I told them. About you." Derek spoke from the foot of the bed, where he stood with his hands braced against the railing, his intense gaze once again locked on Stiles.

Stiles sighed in relief. He thought about asking what had happened to them in the months since he had been missing, but refrained. That could wait. Everything could wait, as long as he knew they were safe.

"Stiles." The sound of his father's voice brought Stiles back to the present, and he turned his gaze on his father hesitantly. Now that he had spoken, there was no excuse to avoid his father's questions, and he knew it.

But John simply smiled, his hand reaching out to touch the side of Stiles' head. "I'm so glad your okay." There was too much emotion in his voice for Stiles to reconcile, but he forced himself to smile back. "I'm okay. Really. I'm just . . . tired."

John nodded, allowing his hand to slip away though his smile had dimmed somwhat. "Get some sleep. We'll be here when you wake up."

And though Stiles wasn't entirely certain that he trusted that promise, he allowed his eyes to close anyway.


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: Allow me to make one thing perfectly clear: This is not a Sterek story. This is not slash. Well, unless you count Danny. But he's such a normal part of the story that I don't count including him as making this story a slash story. So no, no Sterek, no slashiness, no yaoi or whatever else you want to call it. Derek and Stiles are both definitely heterosexual in the show, no matter how cute they might be together .. or how much some of the fans might wish otherwise! I hope this chapter helps to remove any confusion as to Derek's motives for staying diligent at Stiles' bedside the way he has._

_Another note: Nick Burkhart and all of the creatures and people associated with Portland, Oregon belong to NBC. These are not original creations of my own, but rather from the TV show GRIMM. For those of you familiar with the show, this takes place near the beginning of Season 3. _

_And let me just say, writing about the death of Allison when my own name happens to be Allison ... it's more than a bit creepy! _

. . .

Derek Hale had been in Oregon to meet up with Cora when he had detected the scent. His sister moved around a lot; they had no home now, not really, and though she had enjoyed Mexico she hadn't felt as if she could make a life there.

She never did.

So when she had called to say that she was in Oregon, Derek hadn't been all that surprised. He had been in Oregon for only a handful of hours when he had picked up the scent, however. It had been months since he had detected Stiles' scent, and it hit him a live a tidal wave. Enough so that his car actually swerved to the other side of the blissfully empty road before he had a chance to right it.

He hadn't been the one to find Stiles - by the time he had made his way to the scene he had found it swarming with police officers, Stiles' scent leading to an ambulance where his unconscious body was being loaded in.

Unconscious. Not dead. Even from a distance Derek could tell that.

It had been relatively easy to hide himself from the local police force as he made his way back to his car, sending a quick text message to John Stilinski to call him. Until the other man did, he had no way of getting in to see Stiles, and he knew it. Knew it from personale experience of being forced to wait and watch as pack members who were not blood relations were rushed into the hospital while he stood, helpless. Relegated to the waiting room with no hope of information until the pack member woke up. _If_ they woke up.

Stiles was the only human member of Derek's pack. He was the only human member of any pack that Derek had even heard of. It just wasn't done - humans were too weak, too fragile, too unable to defend themselves. Beyond all of that, however, they offered too little to the pack as a whole. Stiles had proven that last bit wrong though, hadn't he? It had takent he younger man dying for Derek to realize that. Stiles had been their heart, their conscionse, and the one who never gave up. On anybody. Scott was a protector, and he never gave up on his pack. But Stiles never gave up on anybody - and it killed him when he couldn't make a difference.

Perhaps they had come to romantisize him in the past several months, however. Losing somebody had that affect on those who had been left behind. Still, Derek could remember when the woman they had known as Jennifer Blake had been performing human sacrifices - remembered how much it had torn Stiles up that he couldn't save them. How he had nearly fallen apart at the thought that his father might be the next victim that he couldn't save.

Cora had once told them that all they could do was find the bodies - that they were never in time to actually save anybody. Her words had hit Stiles the hardest. Now, watching as the teenager slept, Derek wished he could have saved Stiles. That there had been some glimmer of hope for the younger man.

Derek wasn't in love with the kid. He had heard the whispers in the hall - that he was the younger man's boyfriend. The very idea was ludicrous to the older werwolf, but he supposed he could understand where they were coming from. John Stilinski brought him coffee and fast food, dealt with the technicalities that the police and doctors would never tell Derek.

He heard them anyway.

. . .

When Scott, Lydia, Kira and Malia tumbled out of Lydia's car, it was with pained necks and nervous energy. The idea that their friend might still be alive was enough to put them all on edge, particularly considering the fact that they had witnessed his limp and lifeless body in the morgue. They had watched his body being lowered into the ground. Their memories were still sharp, as sharp as the death of Allison had been.

Scott preferred when things were straight forward. The longer he remained a werewolf, the more trials and tribulations he was forced to endure, the more he realized that he preferred a solid target to focus his energy on. Stiles had always been the one to figure out the puzzles, to work out the motive. That was one thing he had gotten from his father. In his absense, nobody had ever quite been able to fill his shoes. They had managed, but Scott couldn't help but imagine that things would have ended up a lot better if Stiles had been there to explain things, to help them through it.

People talked allt he time about how brilliant Lydia was, but they tended to miss Stiles' genius. Maybe that was because his ADHD made it hard for him to focus; his grades often suffered as a result. But there could be no denying that Stiles was one of the most intelligent people Scott had ever met.

Rubbing his hands together, Scott drew a deep breath as they made their way through the hospital. He followed Malia and Kira's lead, too confused and disoriented to come up with any sort of plan himself. Luckily, Malia seemed focused and ready, and Kira ... well, Scott couldn't blame her for not being nearly as disoriented as he himself was. She had never known Stiles nearly as well as he had ... and her first introduction to the other teenager had been while he was posessed by the Nogitsune. That didn't exactly lend itself to fond feelings. She had adapted well to the real Stiles, however.

His mind was wandering. Shying away from the fact that Stiles was alive. Focusing on anything and everything else.

There was a police officer stationed outisde the room that Malia and Kira brought them to a stop in front of, and it was Lydia now who stepped forward. "We're here to see Stiles Stilinski. Sheriff Stilinski knows us." That was a good idea, invoking Stiles' father's name. Something the rest of them hadn't even thought of, if the looks on Malia's and Kira's faced were anything to do by.

The officer nodded, leaning over to rap his nuckles against the door. When John opened the door from the other side, he sighed in resignation at the sight of the four teenagers arrayed before him, a small smile touching his lips as he stepped outside of the room and closed the door behind him. "Shouldn't you four be getting out of school right about now?"

Scott had the decency to blush, but Malia simply plowed ahead. "I want to see Stiles." There were times when Malia still forgot that she was part of a group - part of a Pack - now, still thought of herself as a lone creature out in the wild. But they all knew that there was one person that Malia would never leave behind. One person she would never abandon - and that person was Stiles.

"Why don't you come with me. _All of you_." John raised one eyebow, gesturing down the hall with one hand, and the four reluctantly followed after the sheriff. He was their only way of getting in to see Stiles, and even Malia could see that.

. . .

Once they were safely ensconced in a small, private waiting room with the door firmly closed, John sighed and settled himself into a chair that was a fair sight more comfortable than the one he had been relegated to in his son's hospital room. "How much do you know?"

"We know Stiles is alive, and that he's hurt. We dont' know how." Lydia spoke up this time, her gaze intense as she locked eyes with the sheriff. "And I can sense death on him."

John's head snapped up at that, as did her three teenaged companions. "What do you mean, you can sense death on him?"

"It's just a feeling." Lydia explained, and not for the first time Scott wished that Lydia's powers were a bit more straightforward. It seemed like all she ever had to offer were vague feelings and sounds that nobody else could hear. "I feel cold, and claustrophobic. Like I couldn't talk. Not because I was unable, I just couldn't bring myself to say a word. The closer I got to the door, the worse it got."

"Stiles didn't speak for over twenty four hours after he woke up." John said in an off-handed sort of way, watching Lydia closely now. "What else?"

"I could smell rotting flesh. And blood. You know that coppery tang that blood leaves in the air?" Here she paused until she got affirming nods from those around her. "I could taste it on my tongue, like I was being forced to swallow mouthfuls of blood."

John nodded, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees as he rubbed vigorously at his face. "He won't talk about what happened. He was malnourished when he was found, and had lost a lot of blood. None of his injuries are life threatening - just a lot of superficial cuts. There's one that went a bit deeper, but . . . it looked like it had been bandaged up pretty good."

"You said that he's awake?" Scott asked, filled with a nervous energy to go and see his friend for himself.

"He's sleeping right now." John straightened up, pressing and rubbing his hands against his upper thighs as he drew a deep, unsteady breath. "I know he would want to see you, though. Come on."

. . .

Scott, Lydia, Kira and Malia stood just inside Stiles' hospital room, the sound of the door closing heavy in the silence of the room. Stiles was still asleep, but none of them made any move to wake him up.

In the end, they didn't have to. Perhaps Stiles felt their stares on him, or perhaps he had heard the door. Either way, the younger man stirred now, and Scott's heart ached to see his best friend's body in motion once again. It was a sight he had thought he would never see again.

As Stiles shifted into a more comfortable position on the bed, Lydia suddenly took a step forward. "Stiles?"

Stiles shifted up at the sound of his name. "Lydia?" As he said her name, she was already halfway across the room, throwing an arm out to give him an akward half-hug that had her practically dramed over Stiles form on the bed. Stiles hugged her back as best he could without upsetting the machines he was attached to, though his face took on a pained expression.

"Hey." Stiles' voice was soft as he ignored the pain, pressing a hand further up on her back. "It's okay. I'm right here."

Lydia pushed away from him with a scowl, though her face was soaked with tears. "You shouldn't be the one comforting me!" She reprimanded him with a laugh, before taking in the pained expression on his face. "Lay back down." She ordered, pressing a hand to his shoulder.

"Lydia, I think you're giving him whiplash." There was laughter in Scott's voice as he said this, moving forward to lay a hand on her shoulder. Lydia sighed, but allowed herself to be steered to the side so Scott could get a closer look at his friend.

Stiles shifted up into a sitting position, using a small remote to make the top portion of his bed ract like a chair instead of a bed. Once he was properly situated, he smiled at his childhood friend, though his brown eyes looked tired. "Hey."

Scott laughed slightly. "Hey doesn't really do it justice."

There was an akward silence before Stiles broke it - as he always had. "So, what'd I miss?"

"You're an idiot." Malia spoke up from her position near the door, moving forward until she stood next to Scott. Stiles rose his eyes toward the ceiling, as if praying for something, before he settled his gaze on Malia with an amused expression. "I'm pretty sure we covered that a while ago, Malia."

Malia simply shook her head, stepping forward and carefully placing her hand on the pillow next to Stiles head, lowering her own head and pressing her lips against Stiles'.

From the corner of the room, John smiled slightly before quietly slipping out of the room.

. . .

Detective Nick Burkhart had been on this job for a while now - but he had been aware of the supernatural for only a short time. But it was long enough to know the inherent dangers of becoming mixed up in that world.

He had met some good people since coming into his inheritance as a Grimm - an individual who could see past the outside facades of supernatural creature to what lay below the surface. One of his best friends, Monroe, was a Blutbad - a creature not that dissimilar from the werewolves of legend. His girlfriend Roassalie was a creature known as a Fuxpau, another type of supernatural creature which closely resembled a fox when she allowed her supernatural side to take over.

There were dozens of such creatures that Nick knew of, and hundreds more that he had never come into contact with. A trailer passed down to him from his aunt was filled with the work that previous Grimms had done in hunting down such creatures . . . though they had been a bit more brutal about it than Nick. He, at least, was willing to give the members of the supernatural community the benefit of the doubt, whereas his ancestors had been itnerested in only one thing - exterminating anything and everything not deemed "human".

In his work for the Portland, Oregon police department, Nick had been privy to some pretty _interesting_ cases involving members of the supernatural community. Some had been victims, but more often than not they had been the agressors - letting their more basic instincts take over in favor of their human sensibilities and emotions. He had a feeling he was looking at one such case now.

A young man had been found in the forest outside of Portland. It was a forest Nick was familiar with - the same one they had once found a young Blutbad teenager living as a wild creature after she had been abandoned there as a child. What made this young man so interesting, however, was the fact that he had been labelled as deceased several months prior. Everybody they questioned had sworn up and down that the boy was dead - they had seen his body, had been to his funeral, had grieved his loss.

But the kid wasn't exactly clean himself. One Jackson Whitemore had taken out a restraining order on the teenager for kidnapping - an event which Stilinski swore was a teenage prank. But he had also shown up at his fair number of other crimes, and had even had a stint in a local psychiatric hospital.

Monroe had been able to point him in the direction of several creatures which could manipulate the memories of others, but none of them quite seemed to fit the teenager. In the end, though, he knew that the likelihood of Stilinski being the aggressor here was slim to none. The kid had been through hell, and was still on the road to recovery.

Nick was approaching the hospital room housing one teenaged Stilinski when the teenage boy's father exited the room, the sound of voices drifting down the hall - more voices than Nick had been expecting.

Closing the door of the hospital room, John sighed softly when he caught sight of the younger detective. They met partway down the hall, shaking hands in greeting. "Detective."

"Sheriff." Nick smiled slightly. It wasn't often that he got to work with the family of a fellow police officer, and even less often that he got one that was so understanding of the red tape they had to juggle in a situation like this. "I hear your son has woken up."

John stiffened slightly, and Nick could certainly understand why. They both knew that Stiles had some pretty serious questions to answer, not the least of which was where he had been - and who had hurt him. "He's still pretty disoriented." John hedged, obviously hoping to buy some time for the teenager, and Nick smiled.

"I understand. This shouldn't take long."

John nodded, stepping to the side to allow Nick to precede him into the hospital room.

When they entered, Malia had settled herself into a seat on Stiles' bed near his waist and Stiles was grinning up at Kira as she paused mid-sentence, her hands spread wide in the middle of gesturing wildly. Scott stood beside his girlfiend, Lydia having settled on the other side of Stiles' bed. All four teenagers turned to the two fo them expectantly.

"Stiles, this is Detective Burkhart from the Portland PD." John did the introductions. "Scott, Lyda, Malia, Kira . . . maybe you should step outside."

"No." Stiles spoke up from the bed. "I want them to stay. I don't ... want to say this again."

Nick paused, glancing at John, who nodded once to show his approval, and Nick took a step closer to Stiles' bed.

"I understand that this is difficult, Mr. Stilinski, but there are a few questions that I need to ask." Nick paused, giving the younger man a moment, before continuing. "Can you tell me how you ended up in the forest outside of Portland?"

"I don't really remember much." Stiles hedged, knowing that many of the details of his incarceration were mired in the supernatural - and that wasn't something he could talk to a detective of the Portland PD about. "I know there was some sort of commotion, so they left me alone. I was able to get the ropes around my ankles and wrists off, and I just started running."

"What sort of commotion?"

"I don't really know. I heard raised voices, but I was pretty out of it at the time. I couldn't really make out what they were saying, but I know I heard a man's voice."

"You said you were tied up? You were being held about your will?"

"Yes." Stiles' voice was clipped now, a hint of anger making it's way in. "I never would have just ... run off."

"Were you aware that you were proclaimed deceased? Do you have any idea how the officials were convinced of your death after so short of a time?"

"I don't know. I know that they ... they said that they convinced everybody. Even my dad. But they didn't say how."

At the side, Scott frowned. They way Stiles heart had leapt at that statement; Scott had heard enough people lie since he had been Turned to know the signs. And Stiles had definitely been lying just now.

"They? The men you mentioned?"

"No. Women. Two of them. They were ... they kept cutting. And slicing. They were _insane_. They kept ... they wanted ..." Stiles drew a deep breath, knowing that this part of the story needed to be said, no matter how strange or deranged it might sound to the detective. Hell, it even sounded deranged to him. "Every time they cut into me, they would lick up the blood. Drink it. Sometimes they bled me into a cup. Other times they just kind of ..." Stiles trailed off again, and this time John moved in between the teenagers surrounding Stiles to lay a hand on his son's shoulder.

"It's okay. You don't have to keep talking. Have you got what ou need, Detective?" The last was directed toward Nick, who gave a shaky, jerky nod. "Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Stilinski." There was nothing more he could say to the teen - nothing he could think of that would sound appropriate after a story like that.

But he was convinced that a Wessen - a supernatural creature - had been involved.

. . .

After Nick Burkhart had left, there was a tense silence in the hospital room, broken finally by Kira's voice. "How much of that -"

She was broken off by Stiles' voice. "All of it was true." He told her, though he kept staring straight ahead at nothing, his expression blank. "I'm tired. I'd like to go to sleep now, if you don't mind."

Kira started at that, turning with wide eyes to Scott who simply met her eyes with a helpless look in his own. "Yeah, of course. We'll ... we'll see you tomorrow, okay Stiles?"

"Yeah." Stiles answered, though his voice was devoid of any inflection. "Sure."

As Kira, Lydia and Scott turned for the door, however, Malia turned to Stiles. "Do you want me to go, too?"

Stiles finally shifted, turning his head to gaze up at the young woman who had spent the majority of her life as a wolf. He paused, considering her for a moment. "Not if you don't want to."

"I don't." Malia assured him, slipping from the bed to snag a nearby chair and pulling it close to the bed. Scott paused, unsure what to do, before Derek rose to his feet and gestured toward the door. "Let's go." It was clear that Derek intended to go with them, surprising John with his sudden willingness to leave Stiles, though he supposed that the presense of another werewolf that he trusted around Stiles might have something to do with that.

After the four young men and women had left the room, John turned toward his son's bed. Malia had pulled the chair close to Stiles' bed and now sat with her head pillowed on her crossed arms, one hand holding tight to Stiles' left hand. They both had their eyes closed, and the looked so content that John was reluctant to interrupt them.

"Stiles-"

"In the morning, Dad." Stiles interrupted him, opening his eyes to meet his father's gaze, and John was taken back by the anguish he saw there. The fear. "Please, just give me until morning."

. . .

Stiles was released by the next afternoon into the custody of his father. His injuries had never been life threatening, and the bandage on his side had been well enough secured that it hadn't become infected during his trek through the woods.

Though the nurses and doctors had been careful not to speak around Stiles, they had expressed their concerns to John, however. Concerns as to the unusually fast rate of healing that Stiles seemed to be enduring. Though he was not healing at the rate of a werewolf, it was fast enough that they had felt the need to bring it up to John - and that worried the older man. .

John had never questioned that a supernatural creature had to be behind his son's disappearance. But somehow, the idea that his son might have become something other than human had never entered his mind. And it frightened him.

Detective Burkhard had returned to speak with John once before he had been released, but Stiles hadn't been able to overhear their conversation - and his father wasn't forthcoming with information. They didn't stop him from leaving, though so he supposed he had that to be thankful for.

They made him use a wheelchair. In one regard he hated it, but in another he knew that he was probably still too weak to make it out to the car on his own. That didn't mean that he had to like it, however.

The pain medication was still thrumming through his system, and the presense of an additional bottle of pills in his father's pocket gave him hope that the pain he had lived with less than a week ago would not return.

He shied away from thinking of that time, afraid that if he looked too closely, if he remembered too much, he would find himself back there. That all of this would have been just a dream.

Scott and the others were set to meet him at his house, following in the wake of his father's care where he was situated in the front seat with his father. Derek had piled into the back seat of his father's car, leaning against the driver's side door and closing his eyes in preparation for a long drive. Which left Stiles to his own devices.

They had managed to put him back on his medication while he was in the hospital, and Stiles was thankful for the relief from the symptoms of his ADHD.

The trip from Portland, Oregon to Beacon Hills, California was spent mostly in silence, Stiles staring out the passenger side window and tapping his fingers against his left knee.

And Stiles was perfectly fine with that. Conversation would mean questions, and questions would mean being forced to talk about what had happened to him. What he had missed while he had been "gone". How the world had moved on without him. How his father, his friends, all the people he cared about have moved on. And that was something he wasn't ready to face.

Stiles Stilinski was not a coward. He had put his life on the line more than once to protect his friends. He had fought against a shadow copy of himself that sowed pain, fear and chaos wherever it went. He had faced the demon of his mother's illness and come out on top. But the idea that his family, his friends, all the people who made up the most important parts of his life could move on so easily without him ...

He wasn't ready to face that.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N I'm happy so many people are interested in this story! Thank you to all of you who reviewed, and please, keep the comments coming! I'm a little worried that I moved things a little too quickly with bringing Stiles home, but keeping him in the hospital really didn't serve any purpose in the story … plus, with his injuries healing as quickly as they were, the hospital really wouldn't have had any reason to keep him.

A note about the crossover; GRIMM will play a very small role in this story, and the cast of character introduced from that show will be very small. This is predominantly a Teen Wolf story, with GRIMM being used to introduce a large supernatural creature base that I didn't have to come up with on my own. GRIMM came with it pre-made! Plus, I think the two worlds fit well together, with a little creative license as far as the existence of werewolves in the world of GRIMM is concerned.

But enough rambling from me! Enjoy the story and, as always, review!

. . .

She was known as Wspomnienie. Her people traced their lineage back among the years, to the land now known as Poland. They had taken many names, donned many faces in their time, but the name of Wspomnienie had always remained with them.

Death and magic had always been in their blood, and they had kept themselves separate from the humans of the world, with all their technology and the many cities they were wont to build. But they required sustenance, and the blood of magically-inclined humans was the most potent of all.

Many humans were completely unaware of their own magical potential. So much had been lost over the centuries. The young man that she and her sister had taken had been one such individual. Though aware of the supernatural, he had been shockingly ignorant of it's many facets - and just how it was connected to him.

Genim "Stiles" Stilinski. He had a polish background, so she supposed it was fitting that they had taken him; it was rare that they were given one whose background was even loosely connected to their own, especially lately. But his Polish background was strong, and she and her sister had relished in that.

He had been strong - both in spirit and in magic. He would grow to powerful - if he survived that long. If he allowed the magic in him to grow, if he nurtured the budding seed . . . Many didn't. Many lived their entire lives ignorant of the power sleeping within them. But he wouldn't be able to ignore it anymore, not after what they had done.

They had woken something inside of him, something ancient and powerful and in his blood. It had been his blood that they had sought; everything else had been a side effect. They could have gone about it in a more humane manner, but that had never been their way. The sound of his screams as she had cut into him - it had been intoxicating. And his blood had been made all the sweeter for his fear and pain.

He had been a handsome boy, and they had had their fun with him. Normally, it would have ended there. They could go for years without sustenance, without the blood and power of one such as Stilinski. But they had felt the darkness at the edges of the boy's soul - both she and her sister.

They had felt the presence of a Nogitsune.

A Nogitsune could sustain them for years - perhaps even longer, if the correct containment measures were called into play. And only Stilinski could tell them where to Nogitsune had been hidden away - where that power had been contained.

The men who had come for them the night their precious Stilinski had escaped had been Hunters. There were plenty of such Hunters in the world, and these had not been particularly powerful. But they had made the distraction that had allowed Stilinski to escape - if they hadn't been dead already, she would have ripped them apart for that transgression.

She had thought they had all the time in the world to pry the location of the Nogitsune from those pretty lips. But he would tell them where it was - she would enjoy prying that secret from his pretty lips.

. . .

The small room in which one Genim "Stiles" Stilinski had been held was relatively easy to find, once they had understood there was something to look for. When Stilinski had first been found, it had not been clear where his injuries had originated from; it had been clear they had not been self inflicted, but beyond that they had been forced to wait until the teenager woke up. Once the nature of his unlawful and forced incarceration had been revealed, however, their efforts had turned up a small cabin relatively quickly.

There had been no efforts to disguise the purpose of the cabin; there was no basement, and it would appear that Stilinski had been kept in plain sight of the door and windows that would have facilitated his escape. Had that been intentional? Detective Nick Burkhart wasn't sure. But they knew now, without a doubt, that the teenager HAD been kept against his will. The remnants of the ropes that had been used to bind him had been discarded hastily on the floor - possibly by Stiles himself. There were trace amounts of blood and semen on the floor nearby, as well as several vials of blood stored on a nearby shelf.

There was no food in the cabin, which led them to believe that Stilinski's kidnappers had lived elsewhere. There was, however, a sturdy and well-made bed in one corner, with an equally expensive table to the side. They were running on the assumption that Stilinski's kidnappers had taken turns staying in the cabin.

They had also found several hand-written notes in Polish, which the translators had been able to confirm were personal notes on the potency of Stilinski's blood - ramblings and half-aborted recipes on rituals which could be performed with the young man's blood. Insanity, said the other officers. These young women were obviously deranged.

Nick wasn't quite so sure. So he went where he always did when he was stuck - to Monroe and Rossalie, two Wessen who knew more about the supernatural than he. They and been raised on stories of other Wessen, while Nick himself was still relatively new to the this entire world that had existed just under the surface.

But even Monroe had come up blank, though he had promised to look into it, to ask around the Wessen community in places that Nick could not go as a Grimm. His people were known for their vicious tactics in hunting down the supernatural, after all, and most Wessen had been trained from a very young age to run from a Grimm, to hide themselves would simply attack a Grimm on sight, though those were few and far between. All in all, it made it difficult to get any information from the Wessen community as a whole.

Whatever had taken Stilinski, however, Nick knew he had to apprehend them. He had dealt with Wessen who were dangerous before, but these particular individuals went a step beyond anything he had encountered before. They did not kill, or maim, or even devour their victims - instead, they seemed content to hold them hostage for months at a time, slowly draining and then healing those they took. And that made them far more dangerous - and far harder to track.

. . .

At some point during the trip, John and Derek switched out who was driving - a fact that Stiles was completely unaware of as he was sleeping by the time they stopped. The entire trip was taking close to 18 hours by John's estimation, and he was suddenly thankful that Derek had chosen to ride with them. Otherwise, he might have been forced to stay at a hotel, and all he wanted to do right now was to get Stiles home. Home, where he belonged.

When Stiles awoke to the sight of Derek Hale behind the wheel of his father's car, he jerked in surprise before relaxing at a small snort of laughter from his father in the back seat. "Yeah, laugh it up …" Stiles muttered, settling back against

Though he couldn't see it, that earned him a small smile from his father. For the past 48 hours, Stiles had been worryingly silent - nothing at all like himself. There had been no complaints, no quick and witty comments, no back talking to any of the nurses of doctors. No demanding information, demanding to know what was happening and when he could leave. It wasn't like his son, and John was happy to see some of Stiles personality coming back.

For his part, Derek felt his lips twitch slightly. He had never particularly found Stiles funny in the past, especially when he was stumbling all over the place and landing himself in situations he had no way of controlling or getting himself out of. And it wasn't that he suddenly found the teenager funny - rather, he was relieved to hear the young man's strange sense of humor once again. Relieved to hear the sound of his Pack Member's voice, even if it was irritated.

Stiles was Pack. He was human, but he was Pack. It had taken Derek a long time to reconcile those two facts. Stiles' death had cemented that connection; the pain he had felt had been as strong as losing Boyd, or Erica. But it had been made so much worse because he had been forced to admit tha the had missed it; missed the connection. Missed the fact that somebody was Pack. How could he have overlooked that?

Derek knew what it was like to be left alone, with anybody or any hope of salvation. That had been him, when he had first met Scott and Stiles. The only family he had left in the world had been taken from him, and he had been left completely alone. Just like Stiles.

. . .

When they arrived home, John was quick to circle around the car and help Stiles out, lest the young man take it into his head that he was perfectly capable of doing it on his own. The action got a glare from the teenager. John steadfastly ignored the look, however, leading Stiles inside with an arm wrapped around his back.

In the end, Stiles gave in with a sigh of defeat. Even though he had slept most of the way from Portland to Beacon Hills, he was still exhausted. His body ached not only from his injuries, but also from being forced to remain in one position for so long.

And he hadn't even had his pillow.

Once safely inside, Stiles sighed at the sight of his friends waiting for him. Scott was practically on the edge of his seat, just waiting for the chance to move forward, to talk, and Stiles felt a sudden surge of - perhaps irrational - anger. They wanted to talk NOW? Where had they been the last couple of months, when he had prayed for their intervention, for the sound of their voices as they came to his rescue? Where had Scott been then?

Stiles pushed away from the comfort of his father, stumbling a little before catching himself on the edge of the kitchen table. Taking a deep breath, Stiles forced himself upright, moving in the direction of his room without a backward glance at his friends.

Getting upstairs was another matter altogether, and Stiles growled in frustration when he felt a hand come to his elbow. He relaxed only slightly when he realized that it was Derek, his father following closely behind. "It's alright Derek, I've got him." John took Derek's place at Stiles' side, and the werewolf stepped aside willingly enough.

And for once in his life, Stiles was thankful that he COULDN'T hear what was going on downstairs - that he was, after all, only human.

John reached around to open the door for his son, wincing as he took in the pristine state of his son's bedroom. The top of his bureau was covered in pictures of Stiles now, from his first years to more recent photos. A memorial to his son, within the pristine confines of a room that had once been his bedroom.

Stiles didn't notice, however, collapsing face first onto his bed and breathing in the scent of clean sheets. He stayed that way for some time, causing John to shake his head fondly and close the door quietly behind himself as he made his way downstairs.

Once he heard the click of the door closing behind his father, Stiles rolled over onto his back with his arms spread wide, staring at the ceiling of his room for several long seconds. When he moved it was suddenly, as he scurried to the other side of the room to securely latch both his windows. After a moment of consideration he turned to his bureau, quickly collecting the pictures there and setting them aside, before moving his bureau in front of the window as well. He knew that those still downstairs would hear the scraping of furniture, but he didn't care.

After the bureau had been moved, Stiles breathed a small sigh of relief - the first one he had allowed himself since they had pulled into Beacon Hills. The moment was short lived, however, as the door to his bedroom came crashing open to reveal Scott, a panicked look on his face that quickly blossomed into confusion as he took in the sight of a perfectly safe and - relatively - unharmed Stiles standing in the middle of his room.

Stiles made a low sound of irritation deep in his throat - the best a human could come to an actual growl, really - as he advanced on Scott. "Out." He demanded, one hand pressed against Scott's chest. He knew he couldn't force his friend out of his room, but the surprise of his action was enough to allow Scott to be pushed back until he was on the other side of Stiles' bedroom door.

Which Stiles then proceeded to slam in his face.

Stiles leaned against the door, his head banging back against it's wooden surface as he closed his eyes. He remained like that for a moment, until the knowledge that Scott was most likely on the other side of the door became too much for the teenager and he pushed away from the door, stripping out of his shirts and pants and burrowing under the covers of his bed.

He was up a moment later, however, stumbling over to his bedroom door and sliding his desk chair underneath it, wedding the door shut. He had no lock on his bedroom door - his father had never allowed it. But he needed some way to lock it now . . . and this would just have to do.

. . .

When Scott came back downstairs, the rest of their group stared at him expectantly, though Derek snorted in amusement. "I told you he was fine." He reprimanded the Alpha, shaking his head. "We would have sensed somebody else in the house."

"That isn't it." Scott said slowly. "He was barricading himself in his room." Scott paused, his expression both confused and even a little frightened.

"What do you mean, 'barricading'?" John asked, straightening from where he had been leaning against the kitchen counter. He hadn't even heard the commotion upstairs - hadn't been aware that Stiles was even out of bed until Scott went racing upstairs. Stiles' bedroom furniture wasn't exactly expensive, after all, and most of it was lightweight.

"He was pushing the furniture around to block the windows. I heard him blocking his door with something after he pushed me out."

John sighed, bowing his head, before nodding. He should have expected it. It had only been a handful of days since Stiles had been rescued, and for all of that time he had not been left alone. Nobody had spoken to the younger man about the time he had been gone, but John had dealt with victims of abuse before - had seen the fear, the need to hide themselves away and protect themselves. The fact that his son now felt that same need was heartbreaking.

"Let him." As always, Derek's words were clipped and short. "He's not hurting anything." He followed this statement with a shrug of his shoulder, pushing himself up into an upright position.

Scott turned toward the older werewolf, a look of consternation stealing over his features. "How can you say that? He's locking himself …."

"If this is what he needs to feel safe, then leave him to it." Derek reasoned, though it was obvious he was becoming just as tense as Scott. He could literally feel the younger man's anger, his resentment, his helplessness, and it was doing nothing for his own state of mind.

"Scott, why don't you guys head out." John spoke up from his position behind the counter. "You too, Derek. I'll call you when Stiles is ready for company."

A tense silence pervaded the room now, all the other occupants ready to put up a fight - all save for Kira. "He didn't want us here." Kira spoke softly, as she usually did. She wasn't afraid to speak up when the situation called for it, but she also wasn't going to override anybody else if she didn't have to. "Didn't you see the look on his face?"

Scott seemed to deflate, nodding. More than that, he had smelled the anger and resentment on his best friend - a mixture that had sent him reeling if only because he hadn't been expecting it.

Scott spent most of his time trying to ignore all the different things he could smell; trying to ignore the supernatural gifts he had been gifted with - at least when his family and friends were not in danger. In more recent months he had come to understand those gifts better; Derek had helped him to understand that he could sense emotions in the air when Stiles had been possessed by the Nogitsune, and it was a lesson he had put to good use in the intervening months.

Never before had he encountered such strong emotions from Stiles, however - particularly not negative ones. Embarrassment, surprise, even lust from time to time when the human was with Malia. But never this overpowering hate and resentment that had come from Stiles just now. The fact that it was directed at him only made the entire situation even worse.

As the other teenagers began to file out of the house, Malia hesitated, glancing up the stairs and in the direction of Stiles' bedroom. John smiled slightly, coming forward to leah a hand gently upon the young woman's back. "He'll call you when he's ready. Just . . . give him some time for now." Malia nodded at the words, though she couldn't help one last glance in the direction of Stiles' room. John could certainly understand why; it had been Malia that Stiles had asked to stay in the hospital, even when he had sent everyone else away. It could be that he would welcome the young woman now . . . but John wasn't willing to test the theory.

He needed time alone with his son. Time away from the rest of the world, to simply be with the young man whom he had though to be dead and buried. Time to be a family again. Maybe it was selfish of him, to send Stiles' friends away like this. But John was beyond caring. Give him this one thing, he prayed silently as he watched Derek leave with the others. Give him his son, whole and healthy, for just a while longer. The rest of the world would intrude soon enough, and he would be forced to share the younger man. But not yet. Please, not yet.

Closing the front door, John stared up the stairs for a moment before moving to begin dinner with a small sigh. Even if Stiles didn't eat it now, it would be waiting for him the refrigerator later. John was willing to give Stiles all the space and time he needed, just so long as he could be close to his son. Could hear him moving in his bedroom, could see the little signs of his life int he house once again.


End file.
